A Fortune Thanksgiving
Autorzy
Michelle Lindo-Rice
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18,9K
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This Fortune's Thanksgiving table is about to get a little bigger… Rancher Nash Fortune can't believe his eyes during his unexpected reunion with the captivating Imani Porter: she's in labor — with none other than Nash's child! The heir apparent to Porter Oil knew Nash never wanted to be a father. But now the newly minted Fortune is all in, ready, willing and able to spend time learning to parent Colt together — even looking forward to sharing baby's first Thanksgiving. If only Nash could shake his doubts about his own ability to commit to forever with Imani… The duo's chemistry might still be combustible, but will their fears of not being perfect enough tear their newfound family apart?
Chapter One
If only she could stop shaking, Imani Porter could go through with this spontaneous wedding of convenience. She could recite the vows to a man she didn’t love to give her son a father. A son scheduled to make his appearance really soon.
That’s why as she stood under the awning of the justice of the peace in Stone Crest, Texas, clutching her bouquet of water lilies at the beginning of November, she reminded herself she was doing the right thing. Then, taking a deep, calming breath, Imani looked up into the face of her friend Simon Evans, who had proposed to her just seventy-two hours before.
The stand-in for a man who told her he didn’t want to have children.
Imani had the best daddy in the world. Phillip Porter. Of course, she wanted the same for her son.
Her bridal ensemble included a designer wedding veil, a white one-shoulder jumpsuit with a cape and a wide skirt. And finally, she’d donned a pair of peau-de-soie pumps that pinched her toes. All because she knew Simon wanted them to look the part of a happy couple. For the pictures...and for her baby’s sake. Even though they weren’t actually a real couple, she suspected Simon very much desired that to be the case. She had met him during graduate school, when they were study partners, and they had remained loose acquaintances.
Until she learned she was pregnant a month after her relationship ended with the man of her dreams. During a bout of nausea at a nearby gas station, she had run into Simon, who had purchased her ginger ale and crackers. He had stayed with her until she felt well enough to drive. Simon became a shoulder, a sounding board, a support, which she appreciated. But he didn’t make her heart race or her palms sweat like—
No. No. No. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Nash Windham when she was about to promise a lifetime to another man. Squaring her shoulders, Imani slapped a wide smile on her face and tipped her head back to peer into Simon’s blue-black eyes.
Her mother called them shifty eyes.
He reached over to take one of her brown hands in his fairer ones at the same time the judge entered the room. “Are you ready to become Mrs. Evans?” Simon asked, his voice smooth, like the bass guitar he strummed from time to time. Right as Simon asked the question, the baby kicked.
A sign that her child agreed?
She nodded, her lower lip trembling. The baby kicked again and she looked away. Wait...did her son disagree with her decision? Her heart began to pound and dread piled in her stomach. Maybe she was making a mistake by taking Simon up on his spontaneous proposal. Maybe she shouldn’t have accepted his offer to be her baby’s stepfather. Maybe she should have listened to her mother and grandmother when they advised her to have Simon sign a prenup.
After all, she had the means to be a single mom. At thirty-two, she was the proud owner of Lullababies, a high-end baby specialty store she had started with her cousin right after finishing design school. An accomplishment she was proud of.
Simon released her hand to greet the judge. She gripped the lilies she held and gave him a tight smile before drawing a few deep breaths. Seeing her purse on the desk, she battled the sudden urge to snatch it and flee. You can’t back out now.
“Are you cold?” Simon asked, rubbing her shoulders, which made her teeth grit.
“N-no. I-I’ve just never been married before,” she squeaked out, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
He chuckled and ran a hand over his goatee. “Neither have I.”
The judge cleared his throat. “Are you ready to begin?”
With a jerky nod, Imani and Simon turned to face the magistrate. She shook so much that a couple of petals fell at her feet. The judge commenced using the traditional vows they had chosen. With a gulp, she slaked a glance at her groom, taking in his wide shoulders, powerful chin and smooth skin. Anywhere they went, Simon made the women take a second look, got them all hot and bothered, but she remained oddly...unaffected. Unmoved. Then, suddenly, another face, another body—tall and muscular with thick, dark hair and sultry amber eyes—popped into her mind, spiking her heart rate.
Clenching her jaw, she shook her head, shaking Nash out of her psyche. She didn’t need the heart quivers. What she really needed was to think of the man she was about to marry today. This marriage would be a partnership.
Her mother, Abena, and paternal grandmother, Zuri, believed that Simon was marrying her because she was a Porter. He had his eye on a big payout—her grandfather’s billion-dollar oil business in Cactus Grove. Hammond Porter, one of the only Black billionaires in Texas, had begun training her to lead his business from the time she was a child. Imani was his chosen heir and he planned to pitch her ascension to the executive board at Porter Oil. All of which Simon knew.
But Imani ignored her mother and grandmother’s suspicions and their insinuations that he was a rebound. Because, in truth, she didn’t view Simon through a romantic lens.
Then why are you marrying him? Zuri had asked her several times.
Because...
Imani allowed herself to get caught up, listening as Simon recited his vows with that warm baritone and surprising sincerity in his eyes.
They were going to be a happy family, with a happy life and an even happier baby. Weren’t they?
“I promise to love, honor and obey...” he said.
Yep. She could do this.
Then Simon winked. A slow, suggestive wink.
That snapped her out of the fairy tale and back to reality. Panic weaved through her body at a rapid speed, tightening her chest. She took choppy breaths, fighting a sudden wave of nausea, of dizziness.
No. No. No. She couldn’t do this. Her baby delivered two powerful kicks. Imani lifted a hand. “S-stop. We have to stop. Right now.”
Imani dropped the flowers, then snagged Simon’s attention.
“I feel like I’m about to pass out.” Sweat drizzled down the side of her face. She could feel the curls wilting. Dang it. Her stylist had warned her against getting a blowout with the day so humid. She should have listened.
“Is it the baby?” Simon asked gruffly. He wrapped his arm about her, his eyebrows furrowing into a deep V. She heard the judge calling for someone to bring her a glass of water.
Imani lifted a hand. “I just need...a second.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him that the thought of marrying him made her feel weak-kneed and sweaty—and not in a good way.
Simon scooped her close and led her over to sit on the judge’s chair. She could faintly hear the judge asking for a medic. Her fiancé picked up a manila folder and pumped it back and forth, causing her curls to bob against her cheek. Next thing she knew, someone shoved a glass of water in her hand and commanded her to drink. As soon as she was finished, the paramedic on duty stuffed a thermometer in her mouth and wrapped her arm with a blood-pressure cuff.
“Is she going to be alright?” Simon asked, concern in his voice. Was he worried about the woman that she was, or about losing the perks of marrying an heiress? The fact that she didn’t know the answer made her stomach bubble.
Oh, goodness. All this fuss made her face go hot, and the tighter the cuff got, the more embarrassed she became.
Simon was beside himself. “I hope this baby isn’t trying to come today, of all days.”
Was he for real? “What did you say?” she asked, enunciating slowly.
He stuttered, seeming to catch his faux pas. “I—I meant it’s too soon. You’re not due yet.”
Of course, that’s what he meant.
“Her blood pressure is elevated,” the paramedic interjected, her voice steady. “But that’s to be expected. A lot of brides get nervous.” Peering down to look at her, the young woman asked, “Are you feeling contractions?”
“N-no. I’m only eight months pregnant so I’ve still got a few weeks to go. But my baby has been kicking up a storm.”
“That’s perfectly normal,” she replied with a laugh, then patted Imani’s arm. “I think your bride is safe to proceed. It’s probably her nerves.” The room cleared, leaving her alone with Simon.
More like Imani didn’t want to get married. Kick.
And her baby didn’t want her to do it, either.
Kick. Kick. Kick. “Alright, little one, I get it,” she mumbled.
“What was that?” Simon asked, patting his brow. She couldn’t look him in the eyes as he helped her to her feet.
“I’m sorry. I—I have to use the bathroom,” she said, grabbing her purse and scuttling toward the door. Simon came toward her but she sped up and rushed into the hall. Imani hurried into the restroom so fast, she had to stop to catch her breath first before going into the largest stall. Once she was finished and had washed her hands, she dug into her purse for her sandals and changed out of her shoes.
She closed her eyes. Ah. What a relief. You know what else would be a relief? Getting out of here. Along with that thought came a sense of peace. And another kick from her little guy.
Decision made.
“Mommy hears you,” she said. Quickly, she gathered her hair in a bun using a scrunchie from her purse, then opened the bathroom door and peered outside. Simon was a foot from the door. Waiting. Like a vulture with her as the intended prey.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No, but I will be.” Imani raced down the hallway toward the exit with Simon following.
“Don’t do this!” he yelled.
Imani waved a hand but didn’t look back. “It’s already done.”
“If you walk through those doors. I’m done,” he called out. “Lose my number.”
She shrugged, unmoved by his idle threat, and sailed through the automatic doors. They opened with a swoosh and she ran out, grateful for the mild autumn day.
Imani beelined toward her Jeep Wrangler—a baby shower gift from Daddy—so glad she and Simon had arrived in separate vehicles. Simon had spent the morning at a spa—on her dime—while she had been at the hairstylist. Panting, she tried to stuff herself into the vehicle but the skirt was a pain. Good thing it was detachable. After snapping it off her waist, she tossed the flimsy material on the ground of the parking lot before settling inside the SUV. Imani took a moment to shut down her phone. Then, she pressed the gas, and peeled out of the lot.
A couple miles down the road, she slowed as a thought occurred. She couldn’t go home. Simon might show up at her penthouse suite...accompanied by her mother and grandmother. She had planned to sublease her place since she would have been moving in with Simon temporarily while they searched for their permanent home. At his insistence. Simon felt she should purchase a more grandiose compound—again, his words—suitable for her elevated status as the next CEO of Porter Oil.
Abena and Zuri lived in Cactus Grove and had traveled to Stone Crest for the celebratory wedding brunch following her nuptials. The two women had been furious that a Porter would get married in a courthouse. But Simon had pressed her so hard to elope that she had caved, mollifying her family with the brunch.
Thank goodness she had insisted that Nia Okafur, her cousin and business partner, not reschedule the meeting with a new artist and the textile vendor they used. Nia had flown to Paris to meet up with an artist who made one-of-a-kind baby blankets. Imani’s cousin would be back in time for her delivery and would take over the helm of Lullababies while she was on maternity leave.
Her stomach growled. The little guy had gone quiet. Despite the pitiful situation of her own doing, she giggled and wiped her brow. Spotting a creamery, she veered into the long queue of the drive-thru lane.
So since her penthouse suite was out, where could she go? She had packed her weekender with comfy pjs and loungewear, intending to spend her first night as a new bride at Simon’s place. That had put her on edge even though at eight months pregnant, they wouldn’t have been consummating their union. They had agreed to a partnership. Or, as Simon called it, a merger.
Ugh. He really had been all about the dollar signs.
Jumping at the chance to marry the heiress of Porter Oil.
Maybe she could reach out to her brother, Jonathan... Naw. He was all the way in Dubai with her father. They had been building Porter Oil’s legacy overseas for more than a decade. Imani didn’t know how her mother tolerated such a long-distance relationship but whenever her parents reunited, they acted like randy teenagers.
Whatever. That wouldn’t be her.
She supposed that was why she had run out on her own wedding. She wanted something more and she was at the place in her life where she went for what she wanted. And she’d start with a huge serving of ice cream—even though her stomach felt squirrelly all of a sudden—then she’d drive to one of the nearby towns and do some shopping.
Imani moved up a space in the queue.
She squirmed in her seat as guilt flowered in her chest. The magnitude of what she had done weighed on her shoulders. Oh my gosh. Even if he had ulterior motives, Simon hadn’t deserved her running off like that. If only she had listened to Nia, who begged her not to take Simon up on his sudden offer of marriage. What had her cousin called it? A pop-up proposal.
The rocky road ice cream on display looked enticing, making her salivate. It also made her think of the first time she had met Nash Windham. The tears flowed easy—the result of guilt, missing Nash and pregnancy hormones. She struggled to speak clearly when it was finally her turn to order. By the time she got to the checkout window, Imani’s body was shaking from her cry fest. She was the worst person in the world.
The young man at the window bent over to hand her the cone. She was sure her cheeks were red and puffy from crying. “Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked, his eyes widening with alarm when he saw her round tummy. He gave her a stack of napkins.
“Actually? No... I feel horrible,” she sniffled, wiping her face and reaching out to take the ice-cream cone before handing him a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the ch-change. That’s the least I can do.” Before he could utter another word, she drove off.
A sharp pain sliced across her lower back—a sign she needed to calm down. Imani drew deep breaths, gripping the wheel with her free hand, and then began devouring her cone. Eating her feelings. Since being pregnant, food had become her go-to for every emotion she felt—joy, fear, loneliness and now guilt.
Feeling another cramp, Imani pulled over and finished her treat. Then she cleaned her mouth before blowing her nose. Oh, no! There was a huge chocolate stain across her bosom. She lifted the middle console to take out the small bottle of hand sanitizer. After squeezing out a tiny dollop, she rubbed her hands and then poured some on a napkin. She gently dabbed at the chocolate but her garment was probably ruined. Plus, she could feel a headache forming.
A fitting end to her disastrous non-nuptials.
Oh, well. She would change once she got to the strip mall. Imani shoved the image of her plush comforter atop her four-poster bed out of her mind and started up the vehicle, appreciating the gentle whir. Eyeing the phone in her bag, she bit her lower lip and decided to turn it on.
Sure enough, her phone pinged with multiple alerts. Two from her mom, one from her grandmother, five from Nia.
And one from Simon.
Ignoring the low-battery alert, she pulled up his text. We can still do this if you change your mind. Ugh. This man didn’t know when to give up.
Their friendship had run its course.
She blocked him and deleted his contact information, then rubbed her lower back. Tossing her phone in her bag, Imani avoided her reflection in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t face herself.
She couldn’t face anyone.
Oh, Lord, she wasn’t going to make it to the hospital. It was no use trying.
Parked on the side of the road, with no idea of her exact location, Imani wished someone would drive by. Anyone. Her phone had long died and she hadn’t brought her charger with her that morning. She could see the cord on her coffee table and bit her lower lip to keep the panic at bay. How many times had her mother and Simon told her to keep a spare in her car? If only she had listened...
After spending a few hours engaging in retail therapy, very much unaware that she was in labor, Imani had been on her way home late that evening when the first serious contraction hit. It only took a few minutes before she realized her multiple trips to the restroom could have been her water breaking. Somewhere on her journey back, her vehicle navigation system had lost signal and she had made a wrong turn. Now she was well and truly lost in these back roads. And now low on gas, with labor pains, she couldn’t keep driving and put herself and her baby at risk. So here she was, in active labor with only the cows and a couple of goats for company.
Breathe, Imani. Breathe. In, out. In, out.
Oh, it was no use.
Her contractions were now coming so fast and furious, about a minute apart, that she struggled with remembering how to do anything she’d learned in Lamaze class.
I can’t have this baby, out here in the middle of nowhere, alone.
But it looked like she might not have any choice in the matter. Her stomach muscles tensed, her body priming for another contraction. Holding on to the door handle and gripping her leather seat, Imani bunched her fists and screamed.
